Broken Flame
by Muses' Advocate
Summary: It was cold that night, an irony that only Los Angeles could afford; the sunlight had long faded into a blue-black memory. He never had never even considered the winding road of another's fate to end so abruptly here, in the cold apathy of the grave. (Po


It was cold that night, an irony that only Los Angeles could afford; the sunlight had long faded into a blue-black memory. Squinting, John Constantine looked at the sky. The first of the stars were beginning to emerge, tiny crystals lost among the foggy ceiling of clouds. He sighed and resumed looking at his feet. Out of habit, almost subconsciously, he slipped his lighter from within his coat and absentmindedly began snapping it open, closed. Open, closed. Embracing the air… suffocating. With a resolute sigh and a morose shake of his head, the returned it to its rightful pocket. He couldn't put it off any longer.

­­­­­­­­­­­­-

A gloomy Saturday night had found the fallen hero in his lonely apartment, trying to find refuge in the coarse harshness of a cold bed. With an aggravated, tired moan, he rolled over and turned on the bedside lamp; wraithlike shadows played across the wall, cast from the sparse furnishings of his minimalist home. _Home_, he thought sardonically with a grimace mirroring his thoughts. _Like this place is any kind of solace._ John took a moment for self-pity then pulled his clothes back on, and, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, left the apartment.

­­­­­­­­­­­­-

Four a.m. on a city street does not draw the most savory crowd on a good day. Today- or rather this morning- the fluorescent halo from 24-hour marts shone on dealers and prostitutes, alcoholics and the homeless, and a single gaunt man with mussed hair and a dark blazer slung over his shoulder. At first he pushed through the crowds with the imperious rush of a man knowing two things- his destination and the fact that he's better than you. Slowly, his pace slowed, and he began to lag. Almost without conscious will, the lighter manifested in his hand, a time-worn practice, and he began to click it open and closed, fighting the urge to use it. John shook his head and replaced it, intent on his mission.

At length, he came on the cemetery, a lonely, solitary plane dotted with stones that took up a whole two city blocks. Silently, he slipped past the looming gates and made a meandering, wayward path to the newest graves. At last, he came within sight of it, and for a long time he stood and stared at it, as though through willpower it would be undone. But the solid severity of Chas' tombstone didn't move and the occupant's mentor wandered towards it, fearful. Explanations, apologies, and heartfelt thanks tried to force their way form his aching head, but nothing made it past his throat without sticking and creating a lump. The garish Zippo had found itself into his hands again, flipping itself nervously back and forth. At length, John Constantine came to a resolution.

With hands shaking from not just sleep deprivation, but a broader, more sorrowful weariness, he laid the small object on the boy's grave. Broken syllables snaked past the reservoir and tumbled out of his mouth with a gravelly tone that surprised even him. He wouldn't allow himself to cry, he couldn't.

"You did good, kid."

Unable to say more, he turned brusquely and strode away… but not before he noted a subtle change in the atmosphere first. A rush of air behind him told of a familiar spreading of wings. Surely Gabriel wouldn't be here… but no. His heart skipped upward in a rapid show of hope and something told him it was no ordinary half breed that now flew homeward through the blackened, hopeless sky.

It was a different man pushing through the crowd on his way home. He was not so hunched over now, and though he continued to watch his feet intently while he moved, a faint, bitter smile was on his lips. The bottom feeders parted and created a path for him, recognizing that he did not want to be interrupted from whatever hope he was dwelling on. Those who did were quickly dissuaded by the dispassionate glances he tossed at them, the apathy that radiated from his clean work suit so out of place amongst the underclass of LA nightlife.

When he had left his impersonal abode an hour before, John Constantine had been restless and exhausted all at once, unable to find any peace in the droll surroundings. Returning, subtle comfort slipped surreptitiously under the blind and through every crack in the wall, inviting warmth from every corner and shadow. A weary sigh broke past his lips as he crawled into bed again, welcoming the stiff quality of the sheets. Just as he turned to put his light out, he noticed something.

A gleaming, silvery feather reposed on the pillow next to him.

"Good night," John murmured, drawing down the lamp cord and letting the darkness envelope him.


End file.
